


Of the Birds and the Bugs

by Saesama



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alien Culture, Aromantic, Blood and Violence, Class Issues, F/M, Medical Procedures, Politics, Public Display of Affection, Raksha, Seelie Court, Spiders, Unseelie Court
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saesama/pseuds/Saesama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Bog King is injured protecting an elf festival from a bird attack, it threatens not only his life, but his throne. Marianne, determined to help in any way she can, gets a crash course in the differences in the Seelie and Unseelie courts, learns a bit about Bog's past, and proves once and for all that she <i>can</i> take care of herself - and an entire kingdom, if need be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hold Your Ground

The dragonfly fair was one of the last festivals of summer, just after the muggiest days of the late season, when the weather first dipped towards fall. It was also one of the more important elf festivals, one that brought dragonfly breeders from all across the fields into the city. The wealthy breeders had permanent stables along the river, and new, temporary stables lined the waterway for the final few weeks of summer.

One in particular drew a good amount of whispered speculation. It was in a place of honor, nestled between the permanent stables and the rest of the fairgrounds, in a little curve of the river that gave some measure of seclusion without completely cutting off access. It was built every bit as sturdy as the rest of the temporary stables, but the colored bunting and flags of the elf families were conspicuously absent. The only indications of family or landholders was a single mushroom - a single _sentient_ mushroom, that often gave polite compliments to those passing by - planted in the shade of a few arching reeds. 

The summer had been full of careful talks and tentative overtures of friendliness and trade with the Dark Forest, but the elven Elders had been the first to step up to the plate and issue a true invitation. King Dagda had been apprehensive but he gave his approval, and a trembling Sunny had walked to the Bog King’s new castle to personally deliver an invitation to the festival. After much grumbling and glowering, the Bog King accepted on behalf of his people.

The crown princess of the Fields stood just inside the wide stable doors, twisting a piece of parchment in her hands. Around her flitted the massive, hardy dragonflies of the Dark Forest, with their darker colors and deep, thrumming wings. Everything had to be _perfect_. This was to be the first true proof that the Fields and the Dark Forest could get along and trade and work together. Already, curious elves had been eyeballing the Dark Forest dragonflies, interested in their strength and coloring. Already, some of the less agoraphobic goblins braved the edges of the fairgrounds to examine the Field dragonflies, sleeker and faster than their own. The elves, far more accepting than fairies in general, had reacted with cautious welcome, and the goblins (probably under threat from their cantankerous ruler) had responded in kind. Even with such a good omen right off the bat, Marianne still felt her gut twist. This was only day one of ten, and there was still so much that could go wrong, still so many blunders that could bring this all crashing down or start a war or-

The hum of the Bog King’s wings was a far drier sound, a crackling that cleanly pierced the ever-present thrum of the dragonflies. Marianne glanced up at the shadowy rafters, where she knew Bog was perched, watching over the goblins filing into the stable with their mounts. The afternoon sun in her face made it difficult to see in the shadows and she wrinkled her nose, planting her fists on her hips. “Don’t you buzz at me,” she complained. “ _One_ of us needs to keep things running down here.” 

Another buzz, this one higher, very much like someone blowing a raspberry. “They’re fine, Marianne,” Bog sighed, and she could _hear_ him rolling his eyes. “The stable is fine, the warrens are fine, the food is fine. No one is insulted and the elves are too afraid to try and burn down the stable. Stop flitting.”

“I’ll show you ‘flitting’,” Marianne grumbled, attempting to smooth out her crumpled parchment. Easy for him to say! Bog was perfectly content to run his kingdom just the way he liked it, without a care for what anyone else thought, but Marianne knew how the Seelie courts felt about appearances and perfection and everything had to go _just_ right or-

A way-too-long hand curled over her shoulder. “ _Stop flitting,_ ” Bog repeated, pulling the parchment from her hands. “Your little checklist is finished and everything is as settled as you can make it.”

Marianne snatched her checklist back and scowled over her shoulder at Bog. “Says _you_. How many festivals have you organized recently, O mighty Bog King?”

Bog grabbed the checklist again and held it up and back, his lip curling away from his teeth. “None, and I intend to keep it that way,” he retorted. “Which means keeping you from wearing yourself to the bone and me from picking up your slack, _princess_.”

Marianne’s wings flared in a futile attempt at making herself look larger. Whatever she was about to say was interrupted by a very exasperated “Are you two _done_?”

The checklist was plucked neatly from Bog’s hand. They looked up to find Dawn hovering above them, scowling her most fierce scowl (which was a little like being scolded by a wet mouse) “Go posture somewhere else,” she ordered. “Marianne, I told you, Sunny’s got this! He organized last year’s festival, and the goblins like him. Now, shoo!”

Bog turned back to Marianne, one brow curving up. “You’re not even the festival organizer?” he asked mildly.

“I think you were just told to ‘shoo’,” Marianne muttered, stomping out of the stable.

After a bit of sulking, Marianne’s nerves eased a bit. Okay, so yeah, this was an elf festival, and her only duties were the initial ambassadorial work with getting the goblins to the fairgrounds, but still! This was _important._ They could make a lot of strides towards true diplomacy between the Fields and the Forest with this venture, as long as the elves or gnomes didn’t freak out and the goblins didn’t eat someone important. But her getting all spun up wasn’t going to help anything. Probably. Maybe.

Bog strolled at her side with a casualness born of spiteful humor. He didn't fool Marianne; he was as nervous about this event as she was. However, needling his consort was apparently far more entertaining than worrying himself into a molt. ‘Happy to be of service,’ Marianne thought with a final glare in his direction. She'd get her revenge. Somehow.

By making fun of the way he kept glaring at the open sky, obviously. Marianne hooked her arm around his and she’d never tire of the baffled, pleased look he gave her whenever she gave him any casual affection. “That's the sky,” she said, overly sweet. “It's where the sun and moon live.”

Confused pleasure turned to a scowl (but he didn't pull his arm free, he was such a sucker for contact) “I know what a sky is, princess,” he harrumphed, “Though I'll never understand why the Seelie like it so much. Anyone could see you approaching. Terrible way to hunt.”

Marianne rolled her eyes and lightly pinched the (marginally) softer skin on the inside of his forearm. “We don't hunt,” she pointed out. “Don't worry. I won't let anything hunt _you_.”

“That a promise?” he asked, but his eyes were warm as he cocked a brow at her.

Marianne tapped her chin with a finger, her face twisted in mock thought. “Well, _I_ might be feeling a little peckish later. Do you think I'd make a good predator?”

And she'd never tire of _that_ expression, either; understanding into shock into scandalized into tentatively delighted (and he reached delighted quicker and quicker, the more she proved her words weren't just an empty tease) all playing over his face before he could hide it. Gods below, but she loved this giant prickly beautiful fool. And that made her just as much a fool, didn’t it? She let her smile slide crooked and leaned her forehead briefly against his arm below the plates of his shoulder. His wings buzzed, startled and pleased and-

“Lady Marianne!”

Both of them looked up. One of the guard landed in front of them, sketching a quick bow. “Your Majesties,” he said, short and clipped, his eyes wide with concern. “There is a bird on the Fields.”

Marianne’s diminishing nerves bloomed into true fear. “We jinxed it,” she muttered, lifting off of the ground. Bog followed her, up to the tall watchtower at the edge of town, and the guard at the entry looked ready to protest only for a second. Marianne gave him a hard look and he subsided; they should all know better than to complain about Bog at her shoulder, no matter what the official capacity. “Where’s the bird?” she asked, stalking in. “How many distractors do we need?”

The fairy guard captain pointed to a sprawling map of the Fields, where a line of colored string snaked along north of the city. “He’s on a southwestern heading, princess,” he said, his lips obscured by his moustache. “He’ll be at the closest point due north-west. It’s a big one, but we can’t tell the breed yet. Fifteen, maybe twenty distractors, with another dozen on standby to flare up if needed.”

“Distractors?” Bog asked, craning his neck to look at the map. 

Weirdly enough, the guard captains and generals had less of an issue with Bog than most Seelie. Respect towards a fellow warrior, perhaps? “We set a phalanx of guards in the bird’s path,” the captain explained, as he pointed to the space between the city and the bright red heading. “They fly in tight formation, and tessellate their wings. The pattern is very effective at scaring off most birds, and some of the shapes they make look like a predator’s face.”

“Most,” Bog repeated, glancing up at the captain. “But not all?”

“And not this one.” The elven captain was short, even for an elf, but he hopped easily up onto the table. His face was very, very grim. “We just got confirmation on the breed. It’s a raven.”

The bottom dropped out of Marianne’s stomach. She swallowed, her throat dry. “You’re certain?” At the grim captain’s nod, she exhaled slowly. Bog was looking at her, concerned, and she managed a half shrug. “Ravens are huge,” she said, “and very, very smart. The distractors won’t turn it.”

Bog’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve seen one before,” he said softly.

“Fifteen years ago, maybe?” the fairy captain said. “It attacked at sunset every day for three days. It killed over a dozen people before we could take it down.”

Bog’s lips thinned and he jerked his chin to the north. “How big?”

The captains blinked and look at each other. “Twelve, maybe fifteen times a fairy’s wing span,” the fairy captain said slowly. “The beak is big enough to swallow a goblin whole.”

Bog nodded, decisive. “We’ve fought bigger. Have your soldiers meet mine by the goblin stable.” He straightened and gave the fairy captain a level look. “Make sure they don't have an issue taking orders from an Unseelie King.”

One of the lieutenants near the edge of the room started to speak up, a half-syllable protest that died when every attention turned on him. “I'm sorry, lieutenant,” Marianne said, just enough frost in her voice to make him blanch. “Did you have a different idea?”

The soldier swallowed twice. “No, ma’am,” he managed.

“Good.” She looked back to the captains and gave them short nod. They saluted back and began to issue orders to the officers around the room. Bog flew off without another word and Marianne had to fly hard to catch up. “You've fought birds?” she asked, winging up to his side.

Bog gave a short nod. “Robins and sparrows, mostly. A few owls, which are bigger than your raven. We have methods to deal with them.” He made a sharp dive towards the goblin stable and pulled up just above the ground. “Mount up!” he bellowed, the sun on his wings dancing rainbows across the trampled ground. “We’ve got a bird to fight!”

Marianne expected a few different responses to such an announcement. Enthusiastic hooting was not one of them. Goblins spilled out of the stable, tugging dragonflies on leads behind them. A dozen goblins had volunteered for the fair and all but two hooted and hollered and climbed onto their buzzing mounts with an eagerness that left Marianne bemused.

While she was distracted by the over-eager goblins, fairies in armor and elves on their own dragonflies began to arrive. They lined up in neat ranks, a score of each with a lieutenant at the fore. “Initial response, your Highness,” the fairy lieutenant stated, saluting Bog. “Other squads are making sure everyone is indoors, or standing by to engage at your order.”

Bog scanned the ranks with narrow eyes, then finally touched down to earth. “Do you have any explosives?” he asked, looking between the two lieutenants. “Something flashy we can blind it with?” They both shook their heads and Bog huffed. “Fine. Here’s the plan!” He paused a heartbeat for all of the discussions and goblin hooting to die down, then he pointed to the north with his staff. “Our goal is to take it to the ground,” he said, pointing emphatically at the dirt beneath his feet. “I'll hit it first, dead center. Follow me up in a line, goblins first, fairies last, and keep whoever is in front of you between you and it.”

One of the closer goblins had to duck as Bog gestured widely, sharp movements to match his words. “When you reach it,” he continued, “split to the side and attack the wing joints. Left, right, up, down, and avoid the claws. If you get a kill shot, take it; otherwise, knock it out of the air.” His mouth curved into a cruel smile, and Marianne thought about his grin at the elf festival, so many months ago. “They're much easier to kill on the ground.” He looked around, at excited goblins and uneasy fairies and grim elves. “Any questions?”

“Majesty!” 

Marianne didn't miss the way Bog’s mouth thinned at the sound of Sunny’s voice. Bog’s opinion of the elf was… Low. Not hostile (mostly for Dawn’s sake) but Bog could carry a mean grudge. Sunny wasn't among the ranked soldiers but instead stood just off to the side, cradling the biggest firework Marianne had ever seen. “You wanted an explosive, right?” he asked, only a teeny bit of a tremor in his voice to reveal his unease. 

Bog’s brow curved. “You know how to use that?” he asked. Sunny nodded and Bog leaned forward, obviously challenging. “Are you _willing_ to use it?” 

Sunny set his jaw. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I am.”

It wasn't a complete reversal of opinion, but Marianne could see a good deal of Bog’s dislike simply slough away. “You're on point, then. Be sure to hit it in the face.” Sunny nodded again, looking a bit green, and hugged the firework against his chest. “We've only a minute more before the brute approaches,” Bog finished, looking around. “Now’s your chance to bow out.”

No one moved, and Marianne felt a surge of loyalty. Goblins hunted, but the Seelie did not, and yet, they were all willing to kill this beast to defend their home. This time, it wouldn't be terror-filled days of attacks and death; they would meet this formidable foe head-on. She looked over the soldiers ( _her_ people, Seelie and Unseelie both) with pride, and- Sunny stuck out like a sore thumb, trembling a bit and clutching his rocket.

Marianne sighed through her nose and flitted over to the elf. “The rocket is a great idea,” she hissed, pitching her voice so that neither Bog nor the nearby fairies could hear her. “But if you're doing this just so he likes you-”

Sunny gave her a look that cut off her words mid-sentence, hard and cold and pained in a way he never was. “You know,” he said, almost casual. “I was _really_ young the last time one of these things showed up, but I still have nightmares about my uncle Thad getting gobbled.”

Hot shame washed over Marianne in a wave. “I'm sorry,” she winced. As if Sunny would risk his life, or Dawn’s happiness, just for Bog’s approval. “I shouldn't have- I'm sorry, Sunny.”

Sunny didn't look quite like he forgave her, but the hard look in his eyes eased a bit. Before either of them could say anything else, a scout flew overhead. “It's turned towards the city!” she yelled, swooping low to be heard. “It comes this way!”

“Ride!” Bog snarled, rising into the air again. “Either it dies, or we do!” The goblins cheered and swarmed up, falling into a rough line behind Bog. Sunny kicked his mount forward, darting in front of the procession with the shape of a flint in his hand.

Marianne swerved around the goblins to fly at Bog’s side. He glanced at her and she glared back, daring him to tell her to turn back, to sit this out, _’you're a princess, not a soldier’_. She should have known better. He only adjusted his grip on his staff and looked forward again.

The raven was visible once they cleared the grass; a massive, dark blot against the sky. It was clearly flying towards the city and even from this far, Marianne could make out the black glitter of its eyes as it tilted its head. Suddenly, it dove, with a rough, piercing cry, its beak snapping on nothing. Its erstwhile prey, another scout, screamed in outrage and fear as he tore across the land, just barely above the grass. His wing was bleeding, a chunk missing from the edge, and any hesitation on Marianne’s part burned cleanly away. This thing had attacked one of _hers._ It would pay with its life.

Just ahead, the flint in Sunny’s hand sparked. The raven saw them approach and its cry filled the world, a harsh shriek that echoed between the ears. Marianne set her teeth and dropped back, placing Bog between herself and Sunny. In a line like this, the bird wasn't able to tell how many approached, and they only gave it one target at a time. But Sunny was the first target, and she could see the way his knuckles went white around the firework’s base. The fuse caught and Sunny urged his dragonfly up, directly for the bird. The raven squawked again and opened its huge beak, the scout forgotten in favor of the snack coming right towards it.

Sunny grimaced and let the rocket fly, sparks washing back across his hands and lap.

The rocket whistled and crashed into the raven’s head, dead center between its eyes. There was a stunned second where it pulled up short, and then the rocket exploded in a scream of fire and light. The bird screamed right along with it, flapping furiously to stay aloft while sparks and streamers whistled around its head. Sunny dove beneath its bulk, barely skimming past its claws, and Bog whipped hard to the left to smash its wing joint. The bird twisted to the left and Marianne had to avoid its snapping beak to reach the other wing and drag her blade across.

Curving up, Marianne whipped around to watch the attack progress. The line of goblins and elves and fairies followed the bird towards the ground, each one of them striking it about the wings or head once and zipping away, no one blow knocking it from the air but it didn't get a chance to recover and regain flight. The fairy weapons, being mostly swords, did the most damage, each slicing deep into the joints where Bog and Marianne had struck first. A few goblins, once their pass was over, looped back around to jump from their dragonflies to the bird’s back, riding it towards the ground with exultant howls, at least one elf among them.

The raven hit the ground hard, plowing up dirt and grass in a long streak. It came to a stop on its belly, croaking pitifully, and the defenders landed around it in a circle, weapons at the ready. The goblins on its back shouted and clung to its feathers, weaponless except for their claws and teeth and determination. “It’s not dead yet,” Bog warned, shifting his grip on his staff. 

The raven reared back, cawing and flaring its battered wings. The goblins on its back shrieked and most of them fell off, tumbling down its tail. It shuffled, tilting its head to stare at them with cold black eyes, still very much alive and dangerous. One of the fairy soldiers shifted, her wings flaring and settling, and the bird struck. It was fast, so impossibly fast, and Marianne felt like time slowed as she watched the narrow head dart down, the beak wide open to swallow the fairy whole.

Bog was faster. He slammed the fairy to the side and his name ripped from Marianne’s throat as the beak closed over his shoulder and side. Bog roared in agony, struggling as he was lifted into the air, his carapace lodged in the birds craw. It tossed its head and its beak snapped over him again, the crack of Bog’s armor the only thing that cut through the haze of fear ringing in Marianne’s ears.

Marianne screamed in wordless outrage and streaked up towards the bird and her struggling consort. Behind her, one of the goblins gave a rallying cry and the defenders swarmed forward. Marianne paid them no mind. All she could see was Bog’s face, his eyes wide and wild, his lips drawn back over his teeth. He still held his staff in the hand not inside of the beast and he swung it up and around, smashing the heavy butt into the beak clamped around his middle. It _cracked_ , a spiderweb fracture radiating out over the dark bone and the raven dropped him, its cry gone strangled. 

Marianne dodged the falling king and found her footing, one foot jammed against the shattered beak and her hand fisted in the feathers along the ridge of its eye. The bird shrieked and tried to toss her off and Marianne reared back, her sword in hand. Screaming again, she drove the point through the glittering black eye, the surface collapsing with a wet pop that made her stomach turn. She didn’t stop until she felt her sword strike bone, her hand fully inside the ruined cavern of its eye, blood and white jelly oozing down her arm. 

The raven staggered to a stop, its wings spread to either side. A low, broken sound issued from its throat and it slowly keeled forward. A shout broke the thunderous silence and all of the goblins piled into its chest, knocking it back instead, keeping it from landing on-

“Bog!”

Heedless of the gore smearing her arm, Marianne dropped down and skidded to a stop on her knees at Bog’s side. Dark ichor ran from cracks in his armor, along his shoulder and arm and thigh, but he was moving, he was still conscious and reacting. He rolled his head towards her as she landed and he managed something almost like a smile. “Is it dead, Tough Girl?”

Marianne nodded and burst into tears.


	2. Remedy

Marianne felt useless.

Her brush with hysterics hadn’t lasted long. She’d cried a little out of pure relief, called Bog an idiot and sat with him until the healers arrived. A mixture of poppy and willow rendered him unconscious for the trip back to the palace and packings of rose petals kept the cracks in his exoskeleton from bleeding out, but the healers didn’t know what to do to actually close the wounds. They couldn’t exactly stitch up the heavy armor, and the debate was boiling down to a discussion on glues.

They had asked Marianne’s opinion, and she couldn’t answer. None of the goblins were like Bog and Marianne doubted they’d have any better idea. She hovered along the edge of the room, leaning against the wall with Bog’s staff at her side, close enough to butt into the conversation if one of the healers said something idiotic, but she couldn’t do much more than that.

Bog was sprawled out on a massive daisy, one big enough for even his long frame. A few of the petals were pulled and pinned out of place, to allow one of his wings through; it hung at an odd angle that suggested he’d landed badly when he fell from the raven, and the healers didn’t want to strain it further by having him lie on it. Bog looked… small. Smaller. He was always so animated, always flitting and twitching and rolling his shoulders about and scowling, and to see him so still did things to Marianne’s heart that she didn’t want to consider. 

She folded her arms and picked at the dried gore still streaked up to her bicep and tried very hard to not cry again or start screaming or something. The goblins had recovered her sword from the raven’s skull and for the first time in a while, its weight on her hip was not a comfort. She’d killed something. She’d taken a life. She’d been willing, in the past; had Bog been a hair slower during that first terrible, glorious fight, she would have flown back to the fairy palace with Dawn under her arm and Bog’s head on her belt. But there was a wretched difference between willing to kill and standing in an infirmary with the lifeblood of another creature drying on her skin. She wished Bog was awake; she’d never gotten confirmation, but she suspected he knew what she was going through. 

Then she felt like a selfish child, because Bog was injured and she wanted him for her own comfort.

The healers began to argue about whether or not it was a good idea to give Bog the poppy, since they didn’t know what kind of effect it had on goblins. Marianne sighed and rubbed her temples. She’d sent word from the battlefield to Griselda on what had happened, asking for advice, and she hoped it arrived soon. Honestly, she hoped Griselda herself arrived soon. The woman was tiny but she had a damn impressive set of lungs and Marianne was pretty certain she’d have the healers marching double-time within minutes of her arrival. 

Unfortunately, it looked like rescue was far from coming and she sighed again, standing upright, as the argument started to skirt a little too close to personal and petty. “I don’t see how this is helping,” she said, just loud enough to cut across the rising voices. 

The healers had the grace to look embarrassed as whole, dropping their indignant stances. Raul, the King’s Physician and the final authority of the infirmary, broke away from the group to speak to Marianne directly. “I’m sorry, princess Marianne,” he said, and he genuinely sounded like he meant it. “But the truth of the matter is that we simply don’t know how to proceed. There are major differences in treating even different types of Seelie, let alone a goblin. We do not want to cause his Majesty any further harm.”

“I know,” Marianne said, deflating a bit. “I sent for advice from the Dark Forest, and I hope it arrives soon.”

“Convenient of you to say, princess. I’ve always wanted a dramatically timed entrance.”

Marianne turned and whatever she wanted to say died in her throat at the sight of the newcomer. She’d never seen a goblin that looked like Bog before, but one now strode across the infirmary, moving with the same kind of hunched stalk Bog often used. The newcomer wasn’t quite as tall or quite as narrow, but they - she? Something in their carriage and voice suggested the feminine - had the same sort of exoskeleton and long face and hooded eyes. If Bog looked like the child of a mantis and a pine tree, this one was of a beetle and a holly; her exoskeleton was a dark, glossy red-brown, more scalloped than Bog’s jagged edges. Her back was hidden by a great seamed plate, like a beetle’s shell that swept from her shoulders to her knees, little flickers of iridescent wings visible behind the arms. She also carried a staff, a question-mark-shaped crook with a deliberate spiderweb of wire in the hollow, cradling a chunk of amber.

The goblin swept up, cool green eyes ticking from healer to healer, taking in Marianne last. “I am the Web Mender,” she said, dipping her head. “I am here at the request of the Regent Queen, Griselda.” She looked down at Bog, her face twisting in a derision and exasperation that suggested familiarity. “What in the names of all of the gods did he _do_?”

“He fought a raven,” Marianne said. “A, a really large bird. It tried to swallow him.”

Raul spread his hands. “And we don’t know how to continue without possibly hurting him worse,” he said. “Do you have any experience as a healer? We need a direction to take.”

“You treat the royal family?” the Web Mender asked, squinting at Raul. When he nodded, she grunted an acknowledgement. “I do the same, for the Bog King and those he holds close. Will you allow me to work in your Domain, and help my liege?”

Raul’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Absolutely,” he said. “My infirmary is yours, Master Web Mender. Whatever help you need, we shall provide.”

“Good.” The Web Mender leaned her staff against the wall beside Bog’s, squinting at Marianne. “If he trusts you with his, I trust you with mine,” she said quietly, for Marianne’s ears only. Marianne blinked - was Bog’s staff sacred, somehow? - and took a step to the side, placing herself between the staffs and the rest of the room. The Web Mender gave her a grim sort of smile and straightened. “I need an assistant,” she said, to the room at large. “One who does not fear spiders or their crafts.”

The healers looked at each other, uneasy. The silence held, spun out just a little too long, and the Web Mender drew in a breath to say something when one of the junior assistants spoke up. “You’re a Spinner?” he asked, cringing when everyone turned to look at him.

The Web Mender lifted an armored brow at him. “What do you know of the Spinner’s art, young one?”

“Not much,” he admitted, sliding past some of the others. “There’s not a lot to read about it, and there’s no one in this kingdom who practices it. But.” He took a deep breath. “I’m willing to help, and learn.”

“Then step forward and learn,” the Web Mender replied. “The rest of you, clean that stuff from his wounds. Do not worry if he begins to bleed again, just make sure to get it all out.” She stepped around to stand near Bog’s head, staring down at him. “Overzealous fool,” she muttered, with a certain fondness. “What is your name, young one? And what did you give him?”

“Carrol, ma’am, and we gave him poppy, and willow. It eases the pain, and brings about a sleep deep enough for surgery.” He seemed to realize that he was wringing his hands and forced them to his sides in tight fists. “Will that hurt him?”

“I have no idea,” the Web Mender said blithely. “I’ve never used poppy on the Unseelie. One of my apprentices may know; he is fascinated by the Seelie’s famed alchemy.” She rolled her shoulder and the great, rounded plates there lifted, peeking up like the lid of a chest. “Come on, wee one,” she coaxed, wiggling her fingers beneath the gap.

Marianne’s eyes went very wide. A tiny spider, small enough that Marianne could cup it in one hand, stepped out from beneath the Web Mender’s armor. It was a pretty, pearlescent white, with a body that seemed a bit too large for how long its legs were. It crawled across the Web Mender’s fingers and perched on her palm, waving its two front legs up at her face. “This is Habetrot,” the Web Mender said, stroking a clawed finger down the spider’s back. “She has saved the Bog King’s life more than once.” She fixed Carrol with a hard gaze. “You are going to hold the Bog King’s armor together,” she said. “I will direct Habetrot in closing the gap. Should your grip or your nerves falter, he will heal off-center, or not at all, and I have no intention of giving my king a weak point for the rest of his life. Are you ready?”

Carrol swallowed but held her eyes. “I am.”

“As is the Bog King,” Raul said, carefully blotting away the water used to sluice away the rose petals. The cracks in Bog’s armor were oozing sluggish ichor, far darker and thicker than fairy blood. Raul stepped back to stand at Marianne’s side, by Bog’s uninjured shoulder, and Marianne started badly when he placed a comforting hand between her wings.

The Web Mender leaned over Bog’s leg and wrenched together the cracked plate on the outside of his thigh, a patient Habetrot waiting on her arm. Bog twitched in his sleep, his lip curling in pain, and Marianne tried to imagine how much that might hurt, were he awake. The Web Mender worked dispassionately, sliding the broken edge of the plating back and forth until it fit like a puzzle, and then she jerked her chin at Carrol. He stepped up and grabbed the plate, bracing himself to hold it in place. The Web Mender let go, watched for a moment to make sure Carrol wasn’t going to slip, and lifted Habetrot from her arm.

Marianne didn't understand the words the Web Mender whispered to the spider, something croaky and old. Habetrot began to dance back and forth between the Web Mender’s cupped hands, spinning pale silk between her fingers. The Web Mender waited until she had an open lacework of criss-crossed silk on her fingers before she leaned over Bog. The thread was sticky and clung to Bog’s armor but didn't stick to the Web Mender, who gently untangled her knobby fingers from the strands. It gleamed a stark white against Bog’s exoskeleton, looking a little like filigree or frost.

The fairies all watched, wide-eyed and breathless, as the Web Mender traced her fingers across Bog’s leg, Habetrot chasing after, laying down thin layers of silk on armor and occasionally fairy fingers. Together, they traced around the plate edges, placing anchors to pull the gap together. More silk lined the gap itself as a glue to seal the wound. The whole time, the Web Mender muttered her strange, old song, rhythmic and slow, almost hypnotic.

After a strange sort of eternity, the Web Mender traced a claw around Carrol’s hands. “Up with you,” she said. “Lift his leg from the bed.” Carrol picked up his hands, webbing still stuck to the backs, and everyone let out a slow breath when the plate beneath the pale strands didn't shift or split again. Carrol tried to peel the web off of one hand, wincing as it pulled at his skin, and gave up. He wrapped his hands around Bog’s knee and ankle and carefully lifted one clawed foot to his shoulder. The Web Mender hummed in approval and directed Habetrot around and around Bog’s thigh, a heavy layer of sticky thread followed by a layer of thick, soft-looking thread that seemed to merge together. 

When it was done, Habetrot crawled back into the Web Mender’s hands, waving its forelegs again. “Well done, pet,” the Web Mender murmured. She pierced her own forefinger with her thumb claw and offered it to Habetrot. The spider eagerly drank down the bead of heavy ichor and Marianne pressed a hand to her mouth, swallowing. “We're not done yet, love,” the Web Mender said, while Habetrot spun a little cocoon of silk around her finger. “Ready, Carrol?”

Marianne wasn't the only one who had gone grey. “Yes, ma’am,” Carrol croaked, setting down Bog’s foot and moving up the bed, his hands far steadier than his voice. The Web Mender gave him that grim smile and bent to the task once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concept art for Mend: http://saesama.tumblr.com/post/138655339443/holy-shit-i-arted-meet-the-web-mender-aka-mend


	3. Aftermath

Marianne’s head hung as she trudged out of the infirmary. Bog was all patched up and still breathing and there was nothing more she could do. Raul was speaking to the Web Mender about aftercare and lodging and Marianne let him handle their odd new visitor. She had to give her father a report and clean her sword and scrub her skin raw, maybe not in that order. The Web Mender had retrieved her own staff but Marianne kept Bog’s with her; something about the way the Web Mender had spoken about it resonated in her mind. Bog was somewhat careless about his staff, at times, but maybe he knew he didn't have to fear his subjects doing anything to it. Maybe the Web Mender was wary of being in the fairy kingdom?

And maybe she’d wake up and the entire day would just be a nightmare. Hah.

She rounded a corner, walking towards her rooms, and found Sunny. He was leaning on a balcony balustrade near Dawn’s rooms, one hand rubbing the other. As she got closer, Marianne could see burns across his knuckles; the fireworks were meant to be planted in the ground, not held in hand. He looked concerned and vaguely sick, his eyes unfocused. Marianne walked up beside him, her hand light on his shoulder. “You okay?”

Sunny jumped, his lips peeling back from his teeth in a poor facsimile of a grin. “Yes! No. I don’t know.” His shoulders slumped and he rubbed his burnt hand again. “Never been involved in killing something before,” he said, glancing up at Marianne through his bangs. “What about you?”

Marianne had never killed something before, either, and she was studiously trying _not_ to think about it. “I’ll live,” she said. “We did good today. _You_ did good. The firework was a great idea.”

Sunny looked unsure, glancing out over the rail. Marianne followed his gaze and she could just barely see the dark blot that was the raven, out beyond the elf village. “I didn’t even knock it out of the air,” he said, biting at the inside of his cheek. “You guys all took it down.”

“After _you_ blinded it,” Marianne retorted. “It almost got me; you think I could have escaped if it could see?”

Sunny didn’t look exactly convinced, but his shoulders came up a bit. “You mean you wouldn’t have just choked it out from inside?”

Marianne bumped him with her hip; if he was able to make jokes, he'd be fine. “Did Dawn kill you yet?”

“With tears,” Sunny groaned. “She came out to the, uh, the site, after you and the Bog King left. The goblins asked her for permission to eat the bird, by the way.”

“They can have it,” Marianne said, wrinkling her nose. Sunny grinned, though it slipped when he saw her arm. “I know,” Marianne huffed, “I'm gross. I'm going to bathe now, I promise.” 

“Yeah, you do that,” Sunny said. “I'll let Dawn know you're about. Is.” He bit his lip, sorting his words. “Is he okay?”

“He’s in one piece,” Marianne said, then she made a face. “He's not going anywhere for a while, though.”

“He's gonna be happy,” Sunny muttered. Marianne snorted and continued on to her rooms.

o o o

The blood came off easily enough, but Marianne kept scrubbing at her arm, trying to wash away the way it had felt, sliding down her skin. Finally alone and and without overwhelming concern for Bog crowding her mind, all she could think about was the strangled caw the raven had given at the end, staring up at her with a ruined mess instead of an eye. It had been dangerous, deadly. They had to take it down. 

She knew all of this, and yet.

When Dawn came in, Marianne’s arm wasn't raw, but it was starting to look irritated. “Hey now,” Dawn said, gently prying the washcloth from Marianne’s hand. “Hey. C’mon now, Marianne, don't do that.”

She was crying. She was kneeling in a shallow bath, with the water barely over her knees and quiet tears streaked on her cheeks. She didn't protest as Dawn took the cloth from her hands, her eyes focused on the red smears in the water around her knees. Dawn murmured soothing nonsense and urged her to stand up so she could be rinsed down. The first stream of clean water over her shoulder made Marianne jump and flare her wings and Dawn wrapped her arms around her waist, heedless of the bloody water still clinging to her body. “Shush, Marianne,” she whispered. “It's okay.”

Marianne trembled and clutched her sister, burying her face in Dawn’s shoulder. “I keep thinking about how it looked,” she croaked, her whole body shaking. “How it _sounded_. And about Bog, he.” She took a deep, shuddery breath. “It tried to _eat_ him, Dawn.”

“Shh, I know,” Dawn said, petting her hair. “Sunny and the goblins told me. They said you didn't even hesitate, not once. You were very brave.”

“I killed it,” Marianne whispered.

“You protected your kingdom from a very real threat,” Dawn countered. Marianne could not help a shaky laugh; when had they swapped roles, that Dawn was being the reasonable one? “Come on, let's get you cleaned up, okay?”

Marianne sniffled and nodded and reluctantly let Dawn go. Dawn retrieved the dropped ewer again and sluiced clean water over Marianne's shoulders, giggling a little when Marianne tipped her head back into the flow. Between the two of them, they got rid of the last of the clinging blood and Dawn bundled Marianne in a thick, fuzzy leaf of lamb’s ear and shooed her out.

Marianne made her way into her rooms, grimacing at the sight of her still-messy sword across her vanity. When Dawn emerged nude from the bath, it was to find Marianne sitting on the low stool, the lamb’s ear looped around her waist as she scrubbed her sword with cotton willow. Through the bath door, they could hear Marianne's sprite handmaidens twitter over how best to clean their clothes and the wash basin. “Feel better?” Dawn asked, rooting around in Marianne's wardrobe for something for them both.

“A bit,” Marianne replied, scraping her thumbnail along the grooves in the hand guard. “Have you seen dad?”

“Sunny did.” Dawn’s voice was muffled, her entire upper body inside the wardrobe. “I followed him out to the, um, the fight, but he was gone again by the time I got there. You know the goblins want to eat that thing, right?”

“So I heard,” Marianne sighed. Dawn crowed in victory and emerged with an a load of clothing. “Are you willingly wearing _my_ clothes?” Marianne asked, raising a brow at her sister.

“Well, _I_ don't want to go streaking through the halls,” was the prim reply. Marianne grinned and Dawn tossed a dress over her head. “You're dressing for comfort instead of a fight tonight. You can keep Boggy’s stick but you're going to put down your sword, you hear me?”

“Yeah yeah.” Marianne tossed her head to knock the dress onto her shoulder. “Thanks, _little sister_.”

Dawn paused halfway inside one of Marianne's older dresses and pointed out of the neck hole. “Don't you ‘little sister’ me,” she warned. “I'll get Brutus to sit on you.”

Marianne's grin was almost evil. “He's way more scared of me than he is you.”

“Nuh uh.” Dawn’s head popped out of the dress and she gave Marianne a sweet, equally evil smile. “The goblins are wary of you and Boggy, but they _run_ if I threaten to sing.”

“When did you get so devious?” Marianne asked, squinting at her blade for any missed spots.

“You and Bog are rubbing off on me.”

“Oh, good, our plan is working,” Marianne snickered, and Dawn walked over to playfully shove her shoulder. Marianne caught her wrist and tugged Dawn close enough to rest her head on Dawn’s hip, her arm around Dawn’s waist. “Thank you,” she whispered. 

Dawn stroked her hand over Marianne's hair and wings. “You're welcome,” she replied. “And thank _you_. You saved lives tonight, Marianne.”

“Yeah, guess I did.” Marianne sighed and let her sister go with one last squeeze.

A knock came at the door. “Marianne?” It was their father, and Marianne swore and set down her sword to climb into her dress. She swore again when it caught against the base of her wings. “Marianne, may I come in?”

“Just a minute, dad!” Dawn called back. She grabbed the twisted dress from Marianne, righted it, and shoved it over Marianne’s head. Marianne snarled and yanked it down. “Come on in,” Dawn said, while Marianne shook out her wings and tugged at the dress.

Their father looked like he had aged five summers in the span of an afternoon. “Marianne, thank goodness,” he said, crossing the room to envelope his oldest in a deep hug. “Thank goodness, you’re alright.”

Marianne smiled and returned the hug. “I’m fine, dad,” she said. “Really.”

Dagda took half a step back, his hands on Marianne’s shoulders while he examined her. “I can’t believe it,” he said, somewhat distant. “My little girl, single-handedly taking down a _raven_.”

Marianne bit her lip and looked to the side. “I wasn’t alone,” she pointed out. “It was a joint effort.”

“Yes, the captains said that.” Dagda nodded and stepped back, fatherly to kingly in half a sentence. “I will give my utmost gratitude to the Bog King in person, when he awakens. And I think that everyone who participated deserves a medal of valor, don’t you?”

“I don’t know if the goblins wear medals,” Marianne grinned. “But I know they’ll appreciate the honor.”

“So will Sunny,” Dawn piped up. 

“Actually,” Marianne said, tapping on her lip with a finger. “I think Sunny should get a full Commendation. He _was_ the only civilian out there, and he’s the one that gave us all a fighting chance.”

Dagda looked vaguely alarmed. “He didn’t tell me that,” he said with a frown.

Dawn sighed. “Of course not, Dad; that’d be bragging to you!”

“Sunny was the first to attack,” Marianne explained. “Before me and Bog. He decided, on his own, mind you, to shoot it in the face with a firework, and he gave the rest of us a chance to take it down. Sunny is a _hero_.”

“I… see.” Dagda coughed a bit. “I will discuss with the general what awards are appropriate.” He softened and cupped Marianne’s face with one hand. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked gently.

“I’ll be fine, Dad,” Marianne replied, and it wasn’t a lie. She would be fine. Eventually.

O o o

The infirmary was quiet, the lights turned down to a shuttered lamp here and there. A healer gave Marianne a polite nod as she passed him, but otherwise, it looked like the room had cleared out.

Mostly, anyway. Marianne slowed when she saw Carrol standing over Bog. He was absently picking at the webbing still stuck to his hands, but he was focused on the threads that held Bog’s exoskeleton shut. After a moment, he managed to pick a strand free from his skin and held it up, examining it in the dim light. 

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The Web Mender could move incredibly quietly, for such a large person. Carrol, to his credit, didn’t jump too badly. The Web Mender came up beside him, looming head and shoulders above the young healer, but the expression on her long face was almost kind. “Habetrot comes from a storied line of Spinner’s companions. The thread of her family is exceptional.”

“I’ve always wanted to see it in person,” Carrol said quietly, running his thumb over the thread. “There hasn’t been a Spinner in this kingdom in generations.”

“Hm.” The Web Mender looked up at Marianne, her lips pursed thoughtfully. “Princess,” she said, “his majesty told me once that you wished to trade craftsmen between the kingdoms.”

Carrol jumped much higher when he noticed Marianne. “I did. I do.” Marianne bit her lip - Bog talked about her plans? - and set Bog’s staff against the nearest wall. “I wouldn’t think you’d be interested in staying here, though.”

“I’m not,” the Web Mender shrugged, her wings buzzing beneath her carapace a bit. “But one of my own apprentices heals as the Seelie do, with tinctures and potions. He would be honored to study under your King’s Physician.” She looked at Carrol, her mouth slanting into a smile. “And perhaps this one would like to learn the Spinner’s art.”

Carrol’s eyes were wide and round, staring at the Web Mender in complete shock. “You would teach me?” he whispered. “A fairy?”

The Web Mender cocked a brow at him, the gesture so weirdly reminiscent of Bog that Marianne smiled. “Do you know of any reason you cannot learn?” she countered. “You would have to come to the Dark Forest, and you’d be starting your apprenticeship anew.”

Carrol bit his knuckle and immediately made a face as his teeth scraped against the webbing across his hand. “Miss Marianne?” he asked hopefully. “Is this, I mean, can we do this?”

Marianne pressed her lips together in thought. “I’d have to speak to Bog and my father,” she said slowly. “And you’d have to talk to Raul. So I can’t guarantee anything, but hey.” She shrugged and gave the healer a grin. “You got my support.”

Carrol bit off a short, delighted giggle. “Thank you, princess,” he gushed, sketching a bow. “I’ll go talk to Raul now.” He took a deep breath and composed himself, facing the Web Mender again. “Thank you, ma’am, for giving me this opportunity.” He fought another laugh and hurried off, towards Raul’s office.

The Web Mender watched him go, looking amused. “Fairies are so high-energy,” she remarked.

“So are goblins,” Marianne pointed out, grinning. “Shouldn’t you be used to it? I mean, you _do_ know Bog.”

The Web Mender’s brow furrowed, then her mouth quirked into an odd smile. “Princess,” she said, leaning on her staff. “If I said you had pretty wings, for an elf, how would you take it?”

“But I’m not an-” Marianne cut herself off, her eyes gone wide. “You and Bog. You’re- you’re not goblins, are you?”

The Web Mender smiled and gestured expansively, her shell lifting a little to include her wings in the motion. “The raksha are to the goblins and trolls as the fairies are to the elves and gnomes,” she said. “There are far fewer of us than there ever will be of you, but there are no ‘common’ raksha. We are Titled, and carry amber to show that, or we are Untitled and must earn the right.”

Marianne looked at Bog’s staff, resting innocuously by the wall. Had she offended him, with how often she handled it? “So, he’s _the_ Bog King, right?” she asked. “Like, you’re _the_ Web Mender. It’s not a name, it’s a Title?” She squinted up at the taller woman, frowning. “Are you royalty, too?”

The Web Mender briefly made a face. “I think you would call it ‘nobility’,” she said. “I do not rule, but I have a voice and a say. The Bog King granted me my Title when I helped him take his throne.”

“Huh. He never told me.” She looked down at the still-unconscious Bog, her frown wavering at the edges. “Does he really talk about my ideas?”

A brief silence. “He talks about _you_ ,” the Web Mender said finally, her voice soft. “Often, and at great length. He is… quite taken with you, princess.”

Marianne felt her cheeks go hot. “You, you don’t have to call me ‘princess’, you know,” she said, not quite able to look up yet. “‘Marianne’ is fine.” She grimaced and held up her hands. “I mean, whatever works for you, I’m not gonna just up and start calling you ‘Web’, if you’d rather-”

“Mend.”

Marianne stopped mid-sentence. ”What?”

Now it was the other’s turn to look embarrassed. “I. Those I am. Friends with.” She shrugged again, and her wings totally did the same buzzy thing Bog’s did when he was distressed. “They call me ‘Mend’.”

“Oh.” Marianne smiled and held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mend,” she said warmly.

Mend stared at the offered hand for a brief moment, then clasped it in her own, her palm far smoother than Bog’s. “It is nice to meet you as well, Marianne,” she replied, her own smile shy and a little unsure. Habetrot peeked out from beneath her shoulder armor and waved its forelegs in Marianne’s direction.

Marianne touched a fingertip to the spider’s leg and looked down at Bog. His breathing seemed easier than before, with his shoulder lashed back into place. “He will heal,” Mend said. “Our kind knit clean, as long as we can close the gap. This is not the first time he’s been split open.”

Marianne huffed a laugh. “You’ll have to tell me all about it, sometime,” she said. She hugged her arms to her chest. “Is it… Can I stay with him? Tonight?”

“Ah. Well.” Mend’s eyes were amused, but kind. “We had to keep him on one side of the daisy, for his wing. I think there is room on the other half for a fairy.”

Marianne’s shoulders sagged. “Thank you, Mend. For, for everything.”

“I do my duty, princess,” Mend replied, dipping her head. “Sleep well.”

Marianne crawled up onto the broad daisy and stretched out at Bog’s side. Now that she was horizontal, exhaustion crept into her limbs. She shifted close enough that she could hear Bog’s breathing, spread her wings over them both, and let herself fall asleep.


	4. Raise It Up

_The castle broke apart at the seams and rained wood and feathers into the chasm below and she was tired she was so tired her arms heavy with the weight of Dawn and Sunny but she had to get them out had to free them and the skull over the entrance swung down but Bog was there and his arms fought against its weight and the armor along his left side popped and bled under the strain and he yelled for her to go to leave him to just let him **die** and the skull snapped shut and looked at her with a beady black eye on one side and a ruined crater on the other and its beak opened to scream at her and Bog’s staff was stuck between its teeth and spiderwebs filled the gaps between its fangs and-_

Marianne jerked awake, her breath snagged in her throat like nettles.

She lay perfectly still for a long moment, trying to make sense of her surroundings. She was on a daisy instead of her rose, and her shoulders ached like she’d tried to carry a baby squirrel across the field alone. What had happened? Memory, still twisted by her dream, came back. The festival. The raven. The Web Mender. 

Bog.

Carefully, Marianne rolled over. Bog lay where she had left him, on his back on the other half of the daisy. He looked to be peacefully asleep, despite the heavy white webbing that wrapped around the far side of his torso. His breathing was deep and even, and relief surged through Marianne’s chest. He’d survived the first night. Everything after this was healing.

Unable to help it (and unmindful of any healers that might be near) Marianne reached over and brushed the backs of her fingers along Bog’s cheek. She’d never seen him asleep before, always too aware of causing a scandal to stay overnight in the Dark Forest. He didn’t look small and still like he had the night before, only relaxed, the harsh lines of his face gone soft. 

Some day, she’d get to see this in a setting other than an infirmary. 

Bog’s brow furrowed, then his eyes cracked open. Marianne cursed herself - she hadn’t meant to wake him - and dropped her hand to the petal between them. Bog blinked, then looked over at her, his eyes bleary and gentle. “Hey,” Marianne whispered.

Bog’s lips curled into a warm smile. “Hey,” he echoed. His good hand came up between them and curled around hers. “What a sight to wake up to.”

Marianne blushed and squeezed his fingers. “How do you feel?” she asked. 

Bog made a face. “Like a bird bit me,” he said dryly. Marianne grinned and Bog prodded the webbing around his chest, grimacing. “I see Mend finally decided to come visit. Wonder how much yelling my mother had to do to get her here.”

Marianne raised a brow. “She got here pretty quickly,” she said. “I don’t think it took a lot of convincing.”

“Not convincing,” Bog corrected, “yelling. She and my mother do not get along.”

“None.” Damn, but Mend was quiet. It was somewhat creepy. She loomed over Bog, leaning on her staff and frowning. “The Regent Queen did not come herself,” she said. “She sent a messenger. Six messengers, to be exact, and two of them were fairies. No yelling was necessary.”

Bog rolled his eyes. “Web Mender, presenting the Princess Marianne of the Seelie, Heir to the Throne of the Fields and Consort to the King of the Dark Forest. Marianne, this is Mend.”

Mend scowled at Bog, then gave Marianne a polite nod. Marianne dipped her own head back. “We’ve met,” she said, sitting up on her elbow, her fingers still twined with his. “You never told me you weren’t a goblin.”

Bog scowled back up at Mend and sighed. “It hardly matters, honestly,” he started. “I’m one of perhaps four raksha in the Dark Forest-”

“Seven,” Mend interrupted. “The Untitled.”

“Four raksha that _matter_ ,” Bog countered waspishly. Mend shrugged; this seemed to be the latest in a long, old conversation. He looked back at Marianne, his features dropping into apologetic. “I was going to spend a day in a tree somewhere, teaching you all of this,” he admitted. “Never quite got the chance.”

“I think I forgive you,” Marianne smiled. “ _If_ you promise to teach me while you’re recovering.”

“Deal,” Bog said, lifting her hand to kiss her knuckles.

Marianne blushed again. Mend raised a brow. “Since when are you so sappy? she asked.

Marianne’s embarrassment was totally worth the utter outrage on Bog’s face. “‘Sappy’?” he demanded, struggling push himself up on his elbow. “Did you just call me _sappy_?”

Mend flipped her staff around, holding the ornate head a hair’s breadth above Bog’s chest. “If you try to get off of that flower, I’m beating you back onto it,” she said, her tone flat. “Habetrot is exhausted and I will not let her hard work go to waste.”

Bog rolled his eyes and flopped back down. “I am not _sappy_ ,” he grumbled under his breath. Marianne kissed his cheek.

o o o

The opening ceremonies of the dragonfly festival were delayed by a day, to give the soldiers time to scour the Fields and make sure the raven wasn’t part of a flock. It had been decided weeks ago that Marianne would give the opening speech instead of Dagda, and she was seriously regretting that choice. Standing up in front of a massive crowd wasn’t exactly her idea of a fun time. She glanced over at the side of the stage, where her father and sister waited. Dawn gave her a thumbs-up and Dagda gave her a proud smile. She’d agreed to this under the assumption that there’d be one more waiting, tall and scowly and quietly supportive in his own way.

Well, he was, but not where she could see. 

Swallowing her nerves, Marianne stepped forward and held out her hands. The murmuring crowds fell silent; a sea of sun-kissed elves and gnomes lined with a strand of fairies, a small island of green-grey goblins to one side, Mend like a beacon in their center. Marianne caught the healer’s eye and pulled herself upright, determined to not make a fool of herself. “I’m glad you were all able to join me tonight,” she said.

“I’m alive enough to be here,” someone called out. “Thanks to you, Princess.” 

A ripple of uneasy laughter went through the crowd. Marianne looked out at her people, ( _her_ people) at the wary glances at the sky, at the way the children were excited about the fair but trying to hide in their parent’s shadows, at the added layer of fairy guards who weren’t watching the stage at all, at the huddled goblins clustered around the lone Raksha in their midst. With a slow breath, she set aside her carefully rehearsed speech. “Not just because of me,” she said.

The entire crowd fell completely, eerily silent. They certainly hadn’t expected her to acknowledge the raven, not so soon, not here. Maybe a light-hearted quip, sure, a little bird-related joke in the safe, empty speech. Dagda was making a very subtle ‘’don’t do it’ gesture that Marianne pretended to not see. She had never liked being anything less than completely honest with her people and she saw no reason to start now. “I got in two blows last night,” she continued. “And yeah, one of those was the last one. But if I had gone out there alone, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“You punched the Bog King!” someone else yelled. “How hard could a bird be?”

More laugher, easier this time, and some of the goblins cackled in glee. Dagda blinked and lowered his hand, and Marianne gave him a tight-lipped smile. “The Bog King was injured,” she said, and the crowd gasped, whispers circling like currents. “But he’s alive, and he will heal.” More than a few relieved sighs at that, which was… surprising. Bog had legitimately threatened most of these people just a few short months ago. “One of the scouts was injured, too, and he will also heal. We lost no lives last night.”

Cheers met that, and Marianne gave them a moment. They _should_ be cheering; the last time a raven was on the Fields, they had lost too many. One would have been too many, as far as Marianne cared, and Bog had nearly been that one. “And we have all of you to thank,” she said, smiling again when the crowd stared at her in puzzlement. “Think about it,” she continued. “The Bog King showed us how to fight the raven, but it was goblins _and_ elves _and_ fairies who went up against it. And the goblins wouldn’t have even been here, if they hadn’t been invited to the festival.” People blinked and looked at each other, and Marianne’s heart sang to see a goblin and a gnome stare at each other with slack-jawed amazement. “It wasn’t just me, or just the Bog King, or just the Seelie or the Unseelie.” The cheering began again and Marianne let it lift her, her heart as effortlessly light as her wings as she curved into the air. “It was _us_ , as a whole, and if anyone needs any proof that the Seelie and Unseelie can work together, I’m gonna point them at what we did yesterday.”

The crowd exploded, everyone shouting themselves hoarse. The elves, always so sensitive to swells of emotion, began to pluck the goblins out of their little huddle for hugs and back-slaps. Baffled but always up for a party, the goblins let it happen and they disappeared into the crowd one by one. Mend took one look at the excitable crowd and darted up and away, the startled buzz of her wings audible even over the noise. She gave Marianne a dry look as she approached. “You speak well, princess,” she said, “But I think you missed the chance for a closing statement.

Marianne shrugged as the band on the stage burst into song. “It’s an elf festival,” she replied, leading Mend to the side of the stage, where Dawn and Dagda waited. “All they need is just enough speeching to get the party started.”

“They’re more like goblins than I thought,” Mend hummed as they set down. Marianne laughed and led her to Dagda for introductions.

o o o

Marianne squinted at the strip of thin bark in her hands, frowning at the scrawling words inked into the surface. “So, your dad is, what, a knight?”

Bog snorted. Mend sighed. Marianne privately thought that perfectly encapsulated their relationship, as far as she could see. “Closer to a general,” Bog said, watching Mend out of the corner of his eye. He was trying to slowly push himself into a sitting position without her noticing. Marianne didn’t think he even _wanted_ to sit up anymore, and was just antagonizing Mend out of boredom, enough willow still in his system that it didn’t hurt him. “Or a, hm, a commander. We don’t have a knighthood.”

“Your knights would be considered Titled,” Mend said. Without looking up from the bottles of fairy potions on the table before her, she picked up her staff and poked Bog in the elbow. He collapsed back to the daisy with a grimace. “As would you and your sister,” she continued, while Bog swore under his breath. “Amber or no, you would be extended the same courtesies and held to the same laws.”

“Huh.” Bog had spent most of the first day eating and sleeping, and then had been moved to a private room, one with a window big enough to accept a mounted goblin informant (and if it was big enough that Marianne had snuck in after her speech and spent the second night at his side again, well, Raul hadn’t done more than given her a wan smile when he found her) During one of his brief periods of consciousness, he’d sent a goblin back to the Dark Forest for a specific set of birchbark scrolls. They were simple texts on Bog’s lineage and the Raksha’s place in the Unseelie court and Marianne had spent most of the morning pouring over them. Bog was far more lively once the dregs of the poppy were out of his system, and he had been quite verbally displeased when Mend confined him to bed rest for at least a week. “So, does that mean I should be in jail for attacking you?”

Bog got a look of absolute devilry in his eye. Before he could say whatever terrible thing he’d thought, Mend spoke over him. “It was a fair response to a perceived insult,” she said, tilting one of the bottles in the sunlight. “His majesty’s response to the breaking of his laws was perfectly valid, but you weren’t defending the criminal, you were protecting your sister. You were within your rights.”

Bog rolled his eyes. “She’s right,” he sighed. “Not a single Unseelie would have claimed you in the wrong.” That look came back and he leaned towards Marianne, sly and grinning. “Of course,” he nearly purred, his voice low and dangerous and Marianne shivered. “If you _want_ to be locked up at my mercy, I’m sure I can make arrangements.”

Marianne flushed right to the roots of her hair. Bog was usually the shy one about those kind of comments, but he never failed to get a spectacular reaction out of her. “Well,” she squeaked, “we may have to remember that one when you’re back home, huh?”

Mend let out a deeply frustrated groan and dug the heels of her palms into her eyes. “I am _right here,_ ” she complained. “Can’t you at least wait until I leave?”

“You brought this on yourself,” Bog said, sitting back with a smug smile. But the look he gave Marianne said that he wasn’t only trying to rile up his friend. If they ever got past the courting stage, they were going to be _insufferable_.

“Yes,” Mend said dryly. “I absolutely did. But seeing as the alternative was prostituting my services to the Amber Throne, I feel you were by far the better choice.”

“Oh yeah!” Both raksha started when Marianne bounced upright on her half of the daisy, scroll forgotten in her lap. “You helped Bog get his throne, right?” Now was Bog’s turn to groan, his arm draped dramatically across his eyes. Mend set down the bottle she held and turned around in her chair to face the daisy full-on. “So, what was that like?” Marianne prodded, ignoring Bog’s theatrics. “I know you don’t inherit by blood, so why the Dark Forest?” Her eyes went very wide. “I remember the death of the old queen,” she said slowly. “You guys didn’t kill her, did you?”

“Would have been easier,” Bog muttered, without lifting his arm.

“There are two ways,” Mend explained. “If a ruler is found unfit to rule, they can be challenged. Three nights, the new moon and the nights before and after, they have to defend their throne against the challenger. The challenger can bring whatever help they wish, as can the defender, but the challenger can only have Untitled on their side, even if they are Titled themselves. Similarly, the defender can only have the Titled as help.”

Bog’s arm slid up to flop on the daisy above his head. “It keeps non-royal Titled from getting antsy,” he said. “There’s a whole mess of rules and laws surrounding a challenge. No, I waited until the old Queen was dead and we went into a claim. Three nights, same as before, but anyone may try. Whoever survives all three claims the throne.”

“By law, it’s every raksha for themselves,” Mend shrugged. “But alliances are not uncommon.”

Marianne bit her lip, imagining a three-day fight to the death. “But why the Dark Forest?” she asked. “Just convenient timing? Who’d want to take the kingdom next to all of the fairies?”

Bog coughed and dropped his arm over his eyes again. Mend gave a very sweet smile. “Because,” she said lightly, “it was against the law for the Bog King to keep his sprite prisoner captive if he was Untitled.”

Marianne’s jaw dropped. “You weren’t even king yet?” she asked. “You fought for a throne just to keep Sugar Plum in your dungeon?!”

Not _just_ ,” Bog argued, lifting his arm to glare at her. “ The kind of primroses Sugar Plum uses only grow at this border. I could prevent _anyone_ from ever using a Love Potion again.”

“Oh.” That made… a lot of sense, actually. A little extreme, sure, but as far as Unseelie logic went, it was downright rational. “So, you two made an alliance and got the throne and your Titles and lived grumpily ever after.” They both gave her a bland look and she tapped her finger against the corner of her mouth. “So, how did you two meet? Was it one of Griselda’s matchmaking schemes?”

Bog choked. Mend sighed and stood up. “That’s it,” she said. “I’m sending one of the scouts back for proper wine.”

“Add poppy to mine,” Bog complained from under his arm again. “I want to sleep through whatever version of that day you decide to tell.”

“Just because you got swallowed by a frog doesn’t mean you have to be like that,” Mend said over her shoulder as she walked out.

Marianne poked Bog in the elbow. “Worse than one of Griselda’s matchmaking schemes?” she asked.

“Much worse,” Bog sighed. “My father and Mend’s mother serve together. We were expected to be _playmates._ ”

“Ew,” Marianne winced. Bog nodded and she patted his shoulder in sympathy. They sat in silence for a moment, then Marianne leaned over Bog, until he shifted his arm down to peer back up at her. “Did you really get eaten?” she asked, grinning when Bog covered her entire face with his palm to push her away.

o o o

The first few days of the festival were some of the happiest Marianne knew since Roland.

The ache of his healing chitin had Bog far less inclined to try acrobatics for the sake of irritating Mend, and it didn’t take much to set up a system of runners to bring regular reports to his window, so he was mostly content to relax and try to heal. Marianne split her time between her duties and lounging at Bog’s side, pestering him for information and stories about the raksha. And each night, she would drift down to his window and slip inside and sleep with her wings draped over them both. Bog had blushed horribly when she laid next to him while he was still awake, and he almost managed to get out something about scandal before she cut him off with a soft kiss.

Marianne didn’t care about the scandal of it all. The healers knew, which meant the palace guards probably knew, which meant her father certainly knew, and until Dagda ordered her not to, she was sleeping at Bog’s side every night. It wasn’t like he was up for anything… vigorous, even if they had been at that point in their relationship (which they weren’t, and Marianne was okay with that, really, but sometimes she _wondered_ and it was as thrilling as it was terrifying) But no one tried to stop her, aside from Bog’s initial stammering, half-hearted protests, and she was stubbornly determined to put up a fight if someone did try.

Three days into the festival, they were woken up by Carrol, bearing far too much breakfast for Bog alone. He bowed out with a knowing smile for Marianne, who only made a few faces as she sat up to grab the tray from the table. Bog watched her, openly amused, as she sat back on the daisy. “Don’t like mornings, Tough Girl?” he asked.

“Who does?” Marianne countered. Bog’s fingers crept over the edge of the tray, seeking out the berry slices along one side, and she rapped his knuckles with the serving spoon. “It’s cold,” she continued, spooning honey over the roasted grains, “it’s early, and nothing interesting ever happens in the morning.”

Bog waited until she was spooning up more honey to dart in and snag a berry slice. “That last is true,” he said, his smile unrepentant as he ate the fruit and Marianne scowled at him. “The kind of things that are interesting in the morn tend to be _really_ interesting, in the ‘my castle has imploded’ way.”

“See? Much better to just sleep through it.” She reached over and dotted honey on the tip of his nose, grinning when he went cross-eyed to try and see it. He frowned at her but wasn’t able to hold it long, his expression sliding into something that made Marianne’s wings quiver. She carefully set the tray aside and took Bog’s hand in her own, aware of the fact that she probably looked like a love-struck idiot and unable to work up the energy to care. “These past few mornings, though,” she said, more to his knuckles than to him. “They’ve been pretty nice.”

“Yeah?” Bog’s entire body moved with his expressions and so much of his delight was in the flare of his scales, the buzz of his wings. He squeezed her hand, his fingers dark and knobbly against hers and Marianne didn't think she'd ever grow tired of that contrast. “It's been- good. It's been good, being here. With you. Um.”

Marianne laughed a little. “Aside from the ‘almost getting eaten’ part, right?” she teased.

“Yes, aside from that,” Bog sighed. He turned Marianne’s hand over and traced his thumbnail across the tendons in her wrist. “Your people,” he said, very focused on her hand. “They… your doctors treat me as if I am one of their own.” He didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, his brow furrowed as he watched his thumb glide over her skin.

“You’re one of mine,” Marianne said, cupping his cheek with her other hand. His eyes darted up to her and she smiled. “That makes you one of ours.”

“You can’t tell me everyone in the kingdom is happy about this,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “I’ve heard the whispers.”

“No, they’re not,” Marianne admitted. “But Raul doesn’t care, which means his people don’t care, and the generals don’t care, and the elves are fast moving towards not caring, and everyone else can get stuffed.”

Bog’s grin stretched wide and he lifted her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles. “You’re going to be a brilliant queen,” he said against her skin.

A lot of responses to that bubbled up in Marianne’s mind. Before she could pick one to voice, there came a frantic buzz of wings from outside. “Why do we keep getting interrupted?” She sighed, reaching up to flip the latch on the window.

It wasn’t a scout, but Mend who stepped in through the window, her face drawn into grim lines. “The Regent Queen approaches,” she said, without greeting or preamble.

Marianne blinked. Griselda was coming to the palace? She looked at Bog and her question died on her tongue. He looked concerned and alarmed, and he struggled up on his elbow. “Why?” he demanded. 

Mend shook her head. “I went to check on my apprentices,” she said. “I found the procession as I came back, and Griselda only told me that it wasn’t for speaking of in the open. She’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Bog nodded, his mouth set in a thin line. “Help me to the table,” he ordered, and Marianne was shocked to see Mend obey without comment. He paused halfway through sitting up and looked at Marianne. “Get your father,” he said. “He’s going to want to hear this.”

“Seriously?” Marianne asked, flitting off of the daisy. “What’s going on?”

Bog grimaced in pain as Mend helped him to his feet. “My mother wouldn’t leave the throne empty,” he gritted out. “Not unless it was something that only I can handle. And anything at that level is something that affects the kingdom itself, and thus, affects this kingdom as well. Please.”

“Okay.” Marianne took a slow breath and flew out of the window, into the bright morning sun. Emergent matters of the state just didn’t happen that often, and Marianne had been too young to be involved with most. The first time she had to deal with one was when she limped home the morning after the elf festival and everything that followed. And now, this. Their alliance with the Dark Forest meant things were, at the very least, going to be more exciting.

The courtyard where her father took his tea and morning reports was a small one, nestled into an alcove near the top of the boulder. Marianne winged in and landed in front of the advisors, cutting off one man’s droning report. “Dad,” she said. “Bog needs to see you right away.”

“Marianne?” Dagda stood, while the advisor made upset squawking noises. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, wringing her hands a bit. “But Griselda is headed this way and Bog said she wouldn’t leave the Forest unless it was an emergency ‘on a level that affects the kingdom itself’. He said you’d need to hear whatever it is.”

Dagda searched her face for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. Let’s go.” 

Marianne led the way back through the palace to the infirmary. Dagda kept up with her, she noticed with a bit of pride; being unable to chase after her and Dawn into the Dark Forest had scared him, and he was working on gaining back some of his mobility. They swept into the infirmary itself, only to find all of the healers nervously gathered around the door to Bog’s private room. Muffled yelling could be heard through the door, and Raul gave the approaching royals a bow and a grimace. “The shouting started a moment ago,” he said as they crossed the space. “We are unsure if we should intervene.”

“Clear the infirmary,” Dagda ordered. “No eavesdropping, and send for my scribe.” The healers scattered to obey and Marianne opened the door. 

Bog sat at the small table, his injured leg stretched out until his toes almost touched the door, frowning down at a scroll. Griselda and Mend were snarling at each other, Griselda with her hands on her hips and completely unintimidated by the way Mend loomed over her. “And just how was I to know that it needed to come here, then?” she demanded, her head tilted back almost comically to look at Mend.

Mend’s lip curled back. Unlike Bog, she had actual fangs, each tooth a sharp point. “It is a raksha matter,” she said, coldly imperious. “It would either come to the Bog King, or to myself. There was no need for _you_ to read it.”

Griselda drew herself up, angrier than Marianne had ever seen. “I am a raksha Lord's wife!” She snapped. “ _And_ the King’s Mother, _and_ Regent! I might be a ‘lowly’ troll, but I know the law, Web Mender, and I am within my rights!”

“What is going on here?” Dagda demanded, pitching his voice above the bickering Unseelie.

“ _QUIET!_ ”

The shouting cut off as cleanly as if it had been sliced by a knife. Bog hadn’t gotten very loud, but his was a tone that brooked no argument and everyone, even Dagda, snapped their mouths shut. Bog was still staring at the scroll, his jaw clenched and his teeth bared as his eyes scanned the words again and again. 

Marianne, for the first time in months, felt a tiny frisson of fear. She’d only seen Bog that angry once, with the fresh imprint of her knuckles spreading a bruise across his cheek and his staff raised high, ready to make her pay for the insult. She tried to not think about that moment but it was hard, seeing him now with the same offended outrage etched into the lines of his face. “Bog?” she asked softly. “What is it?”

Disgusted, Bog dropped the scroll to the table. “My throne is being challenged,” he said flatly.


	5. Breathing Room

_It is known:_

_That the Bog King has fallen prey to a Bird._

_That the Bog King lay dying in a Seelie Castle._

_That the Bog King has endangered his people by leading them into Open Spaces and fighting enemies not our Own._

_It is declared:_

_That the Bog King is unfit to rule._

_That the throne of the Dark Forest sits empty._

_That a Challenge is issued against the sovereign of the Dark Forest, by the Untitled son of the Ebonwyrm, set for the first new moon after the Equinox._

_It is witnessed, and shall be done._

o o o

A bit of shuffling around, and the addition of Dagda’s personal scribe in the corner, turned Bog’s hospital room into an impromptu war council. Marianne sat on the daisy with Griselda beside her, while Bog and Dagda sat at the table. Mend paced the space between the two, able to cross the room in three long strides.

“It's that Silverfish hussy,” Griselda said, very matter-of-fact. “She got inside that brat Aphid’s head and talked him into challenging again while you weren't there. Guess he didn't learn his lesson when you trounced him before.”

“They have no sense of etiquette,” Mend grumbled, her claws ticking restlessly against her staff. “It's traditional to wait at least a few weeks after an injury, to see if the downed will heal or not. He sets a dangerous precedent in taking the first opportunity.”

Bog tapped the scroll. “I'm not there, so it's easy to say I'm dying,” he said. “If he says I'm already dead, they have to issue a claim.” He scratched a claw over the last line. “It doesn't say who witnessed it, so it has to be someone who hates me a lot, to not tell those brats to go jump in some sap.”

“Only Elders can witness a challenge,” Griselda whispered at Marianne, loud enough for the whole room to hear. “They can't make a challenge anyway, so they watch and make sure everything is done right and by the law.”

Dagda peered over the curved top of the scroll, his brow wrinkled with worry. “The new moon is in two days,” he said. “What are you going to do?”

Bog scoffed and sat back. “I'm going to defend my throne.”

“No.”

Bog went very still. Mend pulled herself upright and tapped the butt of her staff on the floor. “If you go in there,” she said, “you will die. You beat Aphid once before, but you were at full strength. He's gotten bigger and nastier, and he has a few Untitled friends with him. They will kill you without a drop of remorse and almost no effort.”

Bog’s shoulders flared as he twisted to snarl up at Mend. “I am not helpless!”

“You're not whole, either,” Mend countered. “You need at least three more days rest before you could even fly again.”

Bog sat back, staring down at the scroll as if it were a live scorpion. “I'm not leaving my throne undefended,” he said. “You-”

“Would die almost as fast,” Mend interrupted. “I can handle one or two Untitled, but there are five in his little group.”

“The Ebonwyrm likes you,” Griselda suggested.

Bog shook his head. “He wants his son to be Titled more than he likes me, and more than he cares about the boy being rude.”

“Our knights are considered Titled, right?” Dagda asked. “I’ll send a contingent of them to hold your throne until you are well.”

Mend and Bog both raised a brow, looking almost like siblings for a moment. “It's appreciated,” Bog said. “But it won't work.”

Griselda snorted. “Silverfish would claim you're being held captive and that the fairies are occupying the throne. They'd declare war.”

“In my name, probably,” Bog snorted, then he looked contemplative. “A few knights might work, if one of mine is there with them. Just a few, three maybe, and a Titled, to ensure you're not invading.” Dagda nodded and Bog looked back at Mend.”Would you fight beside a few fairy knights?”

“And a fairy princess?” Marianne added, before Mend could answer.

“What?” 

“Absolutely not!”

“Oh honey, no!”

“Hey!” Marianne snapped upright, glaring around the room. Only Mend hadn't protested, her head tilted to one side, her eyes thoughtful. “I fought Bog to a draw,” she continued, stabbing a finger in Bog’s direction. “I fought Roland, and he was the best knight in the kingdom. I can fight, and I'm actually Titled in the Dark Forest.”

Dagda raised a brow and Bog coughed. “She's my declared consort,” he said, a little sheepish. 

“And you were going to tell me when?” Dagda demanded, looking back and forth between the two of them.

“About the time Bog was getting patched up,” Marianne replied. “Not the point. Point is, I have a Title, I can fight, and I'm not gonna let some punk take Bog’s throne from him.” She folded her arms and set her jaw. “And it's not just about Bog. This Aphid kid doesn't sound like he's very friendly towards us. If we just let him take the throne, that puts both of our kingdoms in danger and we’re letting an ally fall. What kind of princess would just stand by and let that happen?”

Dagda inhaled slowly through his nose. “And if I forbid it?” he asked.

Marianne pressed her lips in a line. “You'll have to lock me in the dungeon.”

Dagda exhaled with a sigh. “Very well,” he said, his voice tight. “If you will agree to still take three knights, I won't try and stop you.”

“I will,” Bog said quickly. “Marianne, this isn't your fight.”

“How is it not?” Marianne demanded.

“Because I-” Bog’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click. “All of you; leave us.” His eyes darted briefly to Dagda. “Please.”

Griselda and Dagda shared a look but rose from their seats without complaint. The scribe followed them out the door and Mend brought up the rear, looking back at Marianne over her shoulder as she pulled the door shut.

Marianne stood and faced Bog, her arms folded. “You're not talking me out of this,” she warned.

“I'm trying anyway,” Bog retorted. “Marianne, you don't have to get involved. This isn't a one-on-one fight with an honorable opponent. This is going to be dirty and bloody and very savage.”

Marianne lifted her chin a little. “Did you hold back?” she demanded. Bog blinked, confusion clouding his features. “That first time we fought, did you hold back?”

Bog frowned. “Of course not. You were trying to kill me, why would I hold back?”

“And if you fought these Untitled, at full strength, would you be worried about losing?”

“I'm worried about you!” Bog exploded, thumping his fist on the table. “Marianne, this isn't about whether or not you can fight! It’s-” His voice cracked, dropped into a rougher register. “I don't want you to get hurt. Not for me, never for me.”

Marianne felt her stubborn determination waver. She dropped her arms and stepped closer to Bog. He grasped her wrist and drew her close, until she was straddling his good leg and his head rested on her chest, his arms around her. “I'm not gonna talk you out of this, am I?” he mumbled into her sternum.

Marianne slid one arm between Bog’s shoulder and neck, to press her hand between his wings. The other hand she lifted to stroke over his head and along his ear. “What if it was me?” she asked. “What if some upstart fairy declared that I was a traitor for loving you and tried to take my throne and I was too hurt to fight for myself?”

Bog didn't lift his head, but his arms tightened around Marianne, his claws pricking at her sides. “There wouldn't be enough of them left to burn,” he rumbled. “But you're worth that fight. I'm not.”

“Oh no,” Marianne planted her hands on Bog’s cheeks and tilted his head back. He looked up at her, his brows drawn, and she pressed her forehead against his. “Don't you dare,” she hissed. “If you get to fight for me, I get to fight for you, and I'd fight every knight, Titled, king, and queen in both Courts to keep you safe.”

Bog barked out a harsh laugh, his hand threading into Marianne's hair. “What did I do to deserve you?” he asked, angling his head up so that his lips barely brushed hers as he spoke. 

Marianne grinned and gave him a light kiss. “Kidnapped my sister and tried to kill me,” she answered. “Best courting I’ve ever heard of.” Bog snorted and pulled her closer, tilting his head for a proper kiss, slow and warm and sweet. Marianne made a tiny noise and stroked her thumbs over the sharp lines of his cheekbones, wanting to be closer but afraid of hurting him but it seemed like he didn’t care because his bad arm came up to settle his hand over her hip to pull her in and-

A knock at the door, sharp and insistent. “You two work it out yet?” Griselda called out.

They broke apart with equal exasperation. “Yes, mother,” Bog sighed, his hold on Marianne loosening. Marianne flitted back towards the bed as the door swung open again, and she didn’t miss the way both Griselda and Dagda looked between them. “Marianne is right,” Bog continued, as the scribe scurried in. “And she has the right.” He looked at her, eyes burning blue, protective and helpless and loving and scared. “But damn it, Tough Girl; be careful.”


	6. Waiting Game

The Untitled were waiting outside of Bog’s castle.

The new castle overlooked the same swampy patch as the old, though the tree it was in was still alive and far more securely anchored. Instead of an animal skull looming over the entrance, goblin craftsmen and elven volunteers were working on a massive set of doors reminiscent of the doors to the main hall of the fairy palace. Instead of gilded leaves, however, the doors were carved with an interlocking tangle of thorns and strange leaves, rather similar to the design of Bog’s staff. Broad slate stairs climbed one of the roots up to the doors, and there waited the Untitled.

Marianne swallowed and clutched Bog’s staff against her chest. It was her claim of legitimacy in this idiot venture, that Bog insisted she take. Hopefully, the staff and Mend’s influence would keep a war from breaking out over the fairy defenders. She looked back at the three volunteers - Sean, Ross and Brandan, all friends of Marianne’s since her youth - then at Mend, who watched the Untitled with a curled lip. “They're not gonna attack yet, right?”

Mend shook her head. “They know the law,” she said, “and the challenge is worthless if they break it. They won't enter the castle until tomorrow night, at dusk. This is intimidation and boasting, nothing more.” She gestured down at the lounging Raksha, who had noticed them and were watching. “The big one is the Ebonwyrm’s son, often called Aphid. He has challenged the Bog King before and was humiliated by his defeat. The little one with all the wings is the daughter of the Wing Blight, called Silverfish. Griselda is most likely correct in that she is the mastermind of this little plot; Aphid is smitten with her and she would be the throne’s true power should he gain it.”

“Web Mender!” It was the one Mend pointed out as Aphid. His hands were cupped around his mouth as he shouted and Marianne thought he might actually stand taller than Bog. “What nonsense is this?”

“Follow me close and say nothing,” Mend hissed. “And do nothing that could be seen as an attack.” Her wings buzzed as she began to descend, Marianne and the knights close behind. “This nonsense,” she answered, her voice cold enough that frost should be falling from her lips. “Is the King’s Consort and Princess of the Fields, and three Royal Knights of the Fields. The Bog King’s allies support him in his time of trial, Untitled.”

“Because he can't do it himself,” Silverfish sneered, flicking her myriad of wings.

_‘Nothing that could be seen as an attack,’_ Marianne reminded herself, her knuckles gone white around Bog’s staff. The Raksha were similar to Bog and Mend, in that they were too-tall bugs mixed with plants, but each was as different from the next as goblins were. There were five on the steps to Bog’s castle, all of them but Aphid reclining across the stones. Aphid leaned against the doors, his arms folded. 

Mend didn't bother to respond to Silverfish’s comment. She quite deliberately landed at the foot of the steps and walked up, completely ignoring the Untitled in her path. Each one of them waited until the last possible moment to get out of her way, leering at the fairies that walked behind her. Silverfish stared long and hard at Bog’s staff, then gave Marianne a look of complete disgust. _‘Not worth it,’_ Marianne kept repeating to herself. _‘Not worth a war, no matter how smug she looks.’_

Aphid didn't immediately get out of the way as Mend approached. She stopped a handspan away from him, looking up at him like a slug had just dropped in her path. “Move, Untitled,” she warned, “and know your place.”

Aphid’s lip curled back and he looked at Marianne. “And what is my place, Web Mender?” he demanded. “Allowing our enemies to invade our homes? Allowing this to infect our lands?” He made a broad sweeping gesture at Marianne and the knights and scoffed. “What would the Amber Throne say?”

“The Amber Throne sent the Bog King a letter of congratulation last month,” Marianne snapped. Oops, when did she step up beside Mend? Nevermind, and nevermind what Mend said, she couldn't stand there and take these insults quietly. She'd apologize later. “This ‘infection’ is approved of.”

Aphid stood to his full height, shaking out the long wings on his back. “Big words from a fairy who can't even carry her own Amber,” he said, flexing his long fingers.

“Big words,” Marianne retorted, “for a bug without a Title in one land, let alone two.”

Aphid tried to hide the flash of rage across his face, but it was clear that her words hit a nerve. His hands clenched into fists but he stepped aside, way too far into Marianne's personal space as he moved around the group to join his friends. Marianne refused to look back as a pair of goblins swung open the heavy doors for them to enter. This was the first battle and she'd won it and everyone knew it. She wouldn't drop it now.

The doors thudded shut and Mend let out an exasperated sigh. “No wonder he likes you,” she complained, stomping towards the throne room. “Neither of you can keep quiet.”

Marianne laughed, the sound high with nerves. “Would you believe that the first time I fought him, it was my first real battle?”

“That makes this one the second,” Ross helpfully supplied, nudging Marianne's shoulder with his forearm. “If you don't count the bird.”

Mend made a wordless, frustrated noise and the Knights laughed, jostling each other like teenagers. Marianne flitted forward to land at Mend’s side. “Look, I'm sorry,” she said. “But I couldn't stand there and just take that.”

Mend sighed, her shoulders drooping. “I know,” she said quietly. “And you shouldn't have to. Without the Bog King here, I am likely to be… overly cautious. Your wit appears as sharp as your blade, Princess. I will trust you to wield it appropriately.”

“I think that's the nicest thing you've said to me yet,” Marianne grinned. Mend gave her a hesitant smile and led the way into the throne room.

The new throne room was rather like the old, with luminescent pods of swamp gas hanging from the ceiling and a raised dais to the throne. Bog’s new throne was less bone and more plant, an uprooted primrose plant flipped upside down, its roots lashed about to make a broad chair. The ribs of some unfortunate animal curled up and over the top of the throne but the seat itself was only wood - for her sake, she suspected, but Bog was awful cagey when she asked.

Mend gestured with her staff. “This is where the challenge will take place,” she said. “From dusk until dawn, to leave is to forfeit the fight for the rest of the night. You do not have to kill, nor do you have to surrender if you can still stand. The choice is yours. Three nights. Lucky us it is summer, and the nights are short.”

She turned and squinted at the Knights. “The Untitled will certainly attempt to slay you all,” she said bluntly. “They see your presence as an insult.”

“You guys are volunteers,” Marianne added. “If you want to back out, let me know first?”

“We know what's at stake, Princess,” Sean said, all of them more serious than Marianne was used to seeing. “We're here until death or victory.”

Every time she was confronted with her people's loyalty, she was touched anew. “You guys are the best,” she said. Ross turned pink and Brendan coughed into hand, hiding a sheepish smile.

“Marianne! Web Mender!” Stuff appeared from somewhere behind the throne, her ear fins laid back in distress. “We were starting to get worried no one was coming back,” she said, only a little breathless. “Is the sire back? Is Griselda?”

Mend went stiff. Marianne shot her a look and propped her hands on her knees to better talk to Stuff on her level. “Not yet,” she said. “Bog is still pretty hurt and Griselda is staying with him while we're here. I'm the authority for the time.”

She waved Bog’s staff for emphasis and Stuff’s eyes widened a bit. “I'll let everyone know,” she promised, then she looked around at the Knights. “And I'll get you all someplace to stay. We actually have guest rooms now!”

“Awesome.” Marianne straightened and Stuff hustled off, bellowing for Thang. Marianne allowed herself a moment of fondness for the goblin, but caught Mend watching her, her lips pursed. “If you're going to lecture me on my station,” she warned. “Don't. And don't yell at Stuff, either.”

Mend’s lips narrowed to a thin line and she gave a short nod. “I'm going back to my clinic tonight,” she said. “I will be back tomorrow afternoon. I suggest you all stay up as late as possible tonight and sleep in the day. You will need to be alert tomorrow night.” Without waiting for an answer she lifted off, disappearing down one of the high tunnels that led outside.

“She's a frosty one,” Brandan remarked, squinting after the departing raksha. “How's she know the Bog King?”

“I'm pretty sure they're friends,” Marianne replied. “Something about frogs.”

o o o

Marianne gave the Knights a rough tour, mostly to the food stores and the freshwater pool under the castle, and the burgeoning library if they got bored. Stuff found them at some point and led the way to an interconnected set of rooms, with crude stands for fairy armor and deep, soft beds on top of mushrooms. Marianne looked around curiously and only noted three beds before Stuff gestured to her. “C’mon,” she insisted. “I got somewhere else for you.”

The hall Stuff led her down was unfamiliar to Marianne, somewhere above the throne room. Thang was waiting for them and he shoved open a tall, featureless door with a flourish. Marianne looked around, curious. The room was long and tall, with an old, well-loved desk jutting from one wall. The far end turned a corner and Marianne peeked around to see a massive shelf fungus halfway up the wall, piled high with broad leaves and what looked like mouse skins. “What is this?” she asked.

“His majesty’s quarters,” Thang answered, puffing his chest out a bit. “We thought it would be the best place for you to stay.”

“His-” Blood slammed into Marianne’s cheeks, completely unbidden. She'd never been to any of Bog’s private rooms and she knew the Seelie Court would have an absolute fit if they knew. “Okay,” she croaked, then she cleared her throat. “Thank you. Send word back to Bog that we arrived and that the Untitled are hanging about, before it gets dark.” The two goblins nodded and ran off and Marianne gently closed the door.

She had to immediately fight the urge to snoop. She didn't know how Bog would feel about her being in his space and she definitely wasn't going to make it worse by pawing through his stuff. The room was wide enough that she could practice a bit without hitting anything and she hefted Bog’s staff thoughtfully. It was too heavy for her to one-hand the way he could, but it might come in handy if she could wield it with any kind of skill, especially if she got disarmed. 

She couldn't wield it with any skill, and she winced when it flew from her hands and crashed into the side of the desk.

The impact knocked several strips of birch leaf to the floor. Marianne swore and stooped to pick them up, studiously _not_ sneaking glances at Bog’s, what, were these notes? Missives? Correspondence? Why would Bog have fairies sketched into the margins of his offici-

It was her.

Little sketches, etched with sharp lines, and she might not have recognized herself in the scribbly style if she hadn't noticed the care taken to render her wings correctly. The rest of the document seemed to be hasty notes on some kind of trade agreement, but she decorated the edges; a larger sketch of her in flight, narrow gesture drawings of her with her sword, a surprisingly detailed (if a bit exaggerated) rendering of her hair falling across her eyes. She stared, her mouth hanging open in shock. Bog… drew her, sketched her while she wasn't there, thought of her when he was bored in a meeting. 

The entire deadly, absurd, unbelievable week hit Marianne like a branch in the wind. She sank down into the low-slung chair behind the desk, her shoulders heaving with laughter, Bog’s notes and sketches in her lap. Every time she glanced down, her giggles refreshed, until her cheeks were wet from tears and her lungs burned. She was a princess and a consort and a warrior and she was terrified. Her beloved drew her in his notes with too-sharp wings and too-big eyes and he was hurt to save her people. She was in a place that never quite felt like home to stop a war and protect a throne and she only had three knights and a cranky beetle to help.

She felt like she was in a novel.

She felt like she might be sick.

She gave herself a moment, and stood up again. Okay, so the staff was out, but she could still practice. She put the notes back on the desk and leaned the staff against the chair, then drew her sword. She had most of the night to wear herself out enough to sleep through the day, and she intended to use it. 

o o o

Hours later, she pushed the mouse skins to the side and curled up under the leaves. The bed smelled like damp earth and Bog. She was asleep almost immediately.


	7. First Night

It was an hour until dusk, and Marianne was honing her sword, when a knock came at the door. Oddly enough, she had expected any of the goblin staff to just cruise in without announcement, like they did pretty much everywhere else in the castle. Maybe private rooms were different? Whatever. She set her sword to the side and answered the knock.

Thang stood on the threshold, Brutus behind him with a long box in his arms. “Special delivery!” Thang practically chirped. “Straight from the Fields.”

“The Fields?” Marianne echoed, taking the box from Brutus. “Is it from Bog?”

Thang deflated a bit, his shoulders hunching. “I don't know?” he hedged. “Fairies brought it in.”

“Oh, okay.” Not that that answered her question at all. “Thank you.”

Thang puffed up again and swept a low bow. As they walked away, Marianne saw him nudge Brutus in the thigh with his elbow. “She said thank you! His Highness never says thank you.”

Marianne shut the door and placed the box on the desk. It was short work to get it open, and she was met with a wash of black. Curious, she reached in and pulled out the top object.

It was an armored coat, made from some plant she had never seen before. It may have been a fern; it was inky black, a narrow, hollow shaft with a row of long, thin spines down each side. The coat was made up of the shafts running vertically, the spines pulled to the side and woven with spines from the next one over, making a tough, flexible basket weave. The spines were covered in tiny barbs that locked together wherever they touched. The inside was lined with soft violet petals, to protect her skin from the barbs.

Dawn’s influence was obvious in the braided patterns and sleek lines of the coat. Marianne smiled, wondering how long Dawn had kept this a secret, and pulled it on over her tunic. It fit perfectly, flashes of magenta visible at the throat and under the zig-zag bottom of the skirt. Marianne grinned and flexed her arms and wings. No binding, no restrictions, and it looked _awesome._

There was a folded note in the box, on top of what looked like greaves and vambraces. Still rolling her shoulders to get a feel for the new armor, she flipped it open.

_I wanted to have this to you before you left, but the armory took a little too long. At least you'll have it for the fight, right? Bog told me that Unseelie wear their kills, so this will be a big sign to the Dark Forest that you're not to be trifled with._

_~D_

Unseelie wear their kills. Marianne’s stomach did a long, slow flip. The amazing coat wasn't made of some odd fern. It was made of feathers, raven feathers, from the bird she had killed. She let out a high, distressed noise and pulled it back off, her skin crawling where it made contact.

The coat sprawled across Bog’s desk, faintly iridescent in the afternoon light. Marianne stared at it, her heart thudding in her ears. What was Dawn _thinking_? She had killed the bird, so that meant she had to parade around in its corpse? It was absurd, it was _disgusting_ , it was-

Exactly something the Unseelie would do.

Marianne picked up the dropped note and read it again. ‘ _Bog told me that Unseelie wear their kills.’_ That was… perfectly in line with everything Marianne knew about the Unseelie; frankly, she’d be shocked if they _didn’t_ parade their victories in some way. And a raven was definitely a kill worth being proud of. Assuming one was proud of murder, of course.

‘ _...a big sign to the Dark Forest that you’re not to be trifled with.’_

Unbidden and unwanted, the memory of the Untitled swam to the front of her mind. Silverfish, with her disgusted sneer. Aphid, his face etched with hate and derision. ‘ _Allowing this to infect our lands?’_ They thought Bog was wrong for even tolerating her, let alone loving her. They thought that fairies were an infection. They thought she wasn’t worthy of their home and their people. 

She looked at Bog’s staff, resting against the wall by the desk, then back at the coat. Not to be trifled with, indeed. She was princess Marianne of the Fields, heir to the throne, consort to the Bog King, protector of her people. She would show those overgrown bugs what ‘worthy’ truly was.

Steeling herself, Marianne picked the coat back up.

o o o

Mend arrived shortly before dusk. She pulled up short as she entered the throne room, her eyes widening at the scene she arrived to. Marianne sprawled insolently across Bog’s throne, his staff lashed to the curving spine behind her with a few primrose roots. She gleamed in the low light, her sword a sharp contrast against the armor she wore. Her Knights stood on the bottom step of the dais, their swords planted point-first between their feet. 

“Well,” Mend said, landing before the dais, “this looks rather…”

“Foolish?” Marianne asked, raising a brow.

“Unseelie.” Mend responded. Marianne blinked in surprise. “Whatever else may happen,” she continued, stepping past the knights to climb the stairs, “you will certainly look the part.” She planted herself beside the throne, then did a subtle double-take at Marianne. “Are those feathers?”

“You want ‘Unseelie’; you got it.” Marianne’s tone was flippant, but the corners of her mouth twitched with a smile.

Mend shook her head, whatever she wished to say interrupted by the doors thudding open. Stuff and Thang scurried in, pale and a little shaky. “The Untitled approach,” Thang announced, his voice made thready by nerves.

Aphid entered first, his head high. Silverfish was half a pace behind him, and her eyes immediately locked onto Marianne. The other three Untitled brought up the rear and arranged themselves in an arc behind the first two, almost mirroring the defenders. They paused in the center of the room, each of them a work in cold disdain. Marianne wondered if they practiced.

Mend’s hands creaked lightly as she gripped her staff. “And your Elder?” she asked, her voice back to the icy tone she had used the day before.

All of them - Aphid included - looked to Silverfish. She gave a haughty sniff. “She will be here.”

“You’d better hope so,” Mend said flatly. “Your Challenge is invalid without a witness.

Silverfish narrowed her eyes. “We are well aware, Web Mender.”

Mend gave an inelegant snort. “With how ill-advised and unseemly your Challenge is, I make no assumptions about what you may know, Untitled.”

Silverfish’s lip curled back from her teeth in anger. Aphid stood a little straighter and shook out his wings. - and subtly flared them a bit between Silverfish and the dais, until she backed down. “We’ll see which of us is ill-advised,” he said. He had more tact than Marianne had initially given him credit for.

“Yoo hoo! Yoo hoooo!” Blue-white light flashed off of the walls and Marianne’s jaw dropped as the Sugar Plum fairy came to a hover between the defenders and the challengers. “Oh, dear, I’m not late, am I? What am I saying; we can’t begin without me!” With a giggle at the bemused Untitled, she spun around, saw the throne, and froze as still as Marianne had ever seen her. “And what do we have here?” she asked slowly.

Marianne’s throat worked without sound. Mend stood a little straighter. “The allies of the Bog King defend his throne while he is injured,” she said stiffly.

“ _You’re_ the witness?” Marianne blurted.

Sugar Plum snorted, flowing into lazy loops. “And why wouldn’t I be?” she demanded. “It’d be nice to see the Bog King knocked down a peg.” She came to a pause upside down, her grin too bright and too wide. “But _you_ being here, oh, that is _incredible._ ”

Aphid scowled up at the sprite. “You agreed to witness this as revenge against the Bog King,” he said.

“I agreed because I thought it would be funny,” Sugar Plum retorted, rotating in place. “But now, this is going to be a _story._ ”

Aphid’s eyes narrowed. “And it wasn’t before?”

Sugar Plum waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be silly; you’d be an awful king.” Sean let out a short, barking laugh behind his faceplate. Aphid’s expression turned thunderous. Sugar Plum ignored them both and came upright between the two groups. “So!” she said, clapping her hands. The walls flared with a blue sheen, that flowed down and settled in a ring on the floor at the edges of the room. “This is a Challenge, between the Untitled Son of the Ebonwyrm, and the Bog King. Untitled, does any on your side have a Title?”

Aphid’s jaw was clenched. “No Titles,” he grit out.

“And what of you, Princess? Do all of the Bog King’s allies have Titles?”

Marianne was deeply grateful for the days she got to spend at Bog’s side, discussing the politics between the Seelie and Unseelie. “By the Amber Throne, we all do,” she said, deliberately smiling at Aphid’s anger. He had a temper, and she’d goad him every chance she got. 

“Perfect!” Sugar Plum was a dissonant contrast to the mood of everyone else in the room, her voice nearly jarring. Marianne was certain she was doing it on purpose. “We have our challengers, we have our defenders, and we have three nights.”

“If we even need three nights,” Silverfish sneered. 

“I know, right?” Marianne said, deliberately mocking. “The Bog King beat Aphid last time in, what, twenty minutes?”

Silverfish tried to hide it, but she had to grab Aphid by the elbow to keep him from lunging at Marianne. “The Bog King isn't here, now, is he?” she snapped back.

“Well,” Marianne drawled, examining her nails like she was bored, “since I'm every bit as good as he is, this won't take long at all.”

“I don't believe that,” Silverfish said flatly. “There is no way even the mightiest fairy is a match for the lowest raksha.”

Marianne sat up and leaned forward. “You willing to bet a night on that?” she asked, staring right at Silverfish and completely ignoring the rest.

Being ignored totally got on Aphid’s nerves. He was too predictable. “I would,” he said, yanking his arm free from Silverfish. “You and I, one on one.” 

“First blood,” Mend said. “Marianne wins, you leave for the night. The Untitled wins, we carry on as usual.”

“Fine,” Aphid spat, ignoring the way Silverfish was trying to murder him with her gaze.

“Works for me,” Marianne shrugged, standing from the throne. 

“Ooooh, this is so much fun!” Sugar Plum wiggled with glee. “It's always better when it's silly boasting and duels instead of just brawling.” She flitted up to Mend’s side as Marianne descended the dais and the Untitled backed away. “And the Untitled don’t even know who she _is!”_

“We’ve heard of her,” Aphid said, buzzing his wings. “The fairy that think she’s as good as a raksha, and the smitten king that indulges her. It’s not some mystery.”

“Oh dear,” Sugar Plum said, shaking her head, “they really don’t know, do they, Princess?”

“Hey, they can write me off as a pretender if they want,” Marianne said. “It’s not like their opinions matter, and they’ll learn their lesson.” Aphid’s wings flared and one of the others muttered something sharp and cold. Gods below, they were _way_ too easy to get spun up. It was almost sad.

“And it’s too bad,” Sugar Plum said, as Marianne drew her sword. “It’s _such_ a good story.”

Aphid lunged at Marianne, his hands splayed. He had claws, metal claws drawn over his fingers that ended in barbed points. His palms were similarly armored; he could probably parry with them, and maybe even rip her sword from her grip. She’d have to be careful. She dove to the side, her wings flared for balance, and Aphid’s claws skimmed past her face.

“The elf, sneaking in here for little old me.”

Aphid spun around, not quite as fast as Bog but this close, it was obvious he was the larger. He swiped without lunging and Marianne parried his hands away with the flat of her blade. As she predicted, he tried to grab it and she yanked it back quickly.

“The festival, with the Bog King’s _dramatic_ entrance.”

Aphid pressed her hard, swinging both hands in wide arcs, driving her back towards the throne. Marianne let him, concentrating on the timing of his hands, waiting for just the right pause.

“The Imp, spreading the Love Potion every which way.”

Marianne counted one, two, three swipes and jumped, using Aphid’s outstretched arm as a springboard to flip up and over his head. Aphid roared in frustration and tried to grab her foot, his claws barely scraping against her boot.

“I still feel _so_ bad for little Princess Dawn, getting caught in the Potion like that…”

Marianne landed and spun into a low sweep with her sword, very deliberate and much slower than she was capable of. It was a very rookie move, and Aphid took the bait.

“Oh, and the Knight, it was all his fault in the first place, though I suppose he got what he deserved.”

Aphid’s hand locked over her sword. Marianne didn't pull back but shoved instead, bracing her free hand against the pommel, sliding the blade towards him across his palm. Aphid startled and awkwardly bent his arm back, though not fast enough.

“And of course,” Sugar Plum finished, as Marianne’s sword point drew a fine line of ichor down the inside of Aphid’s forearm, “the Princess who stood up to a King.”

The ichor welled up into a thick drop, rolled down Aphid’s wrist, and fell to the ground with a wet splat. Aphid stared at Marianne, unnaturally still, his pupils down to tiny points. Marianne tugged on her sword and he let it go, dropping his arms to his sides, heedless of the ichor trailing down into his palm. Marianne sheathed her sword and straightened. “First blood,” she said, carefully formal.

“First blood,” Aphid echoed. His voice didn't shake so much as buzz, with barely checked malice. “As agreed, the night is yours.” He shook out his wings and straightened, dignity warring with rage. The other Untitled gathered around him. Silverfish looped her arm around his uninjured one and rested her hand on his bicep, in what would have been a comforting gesture, if not for her own nails digging into his flesh. Aphid ignored her. “We will return tomorrow.”

“We will be waiting,” Marianne said. She flew up over their heads and landed before the throne, her hand still on her pommel. “See you tomorrow, Untitled.”

Aphid stared at her a moment longer, then turned to lead his group outside. Just as they cleared the throne room doors, Ross threw his hand up in an exaggerated wave, his wings flared and his armor clacking with the movement. “Byeeeee!” he trilled in a high falsetto. 

Aphids temper snapped. With a roar, he spun back towards the throne room, and Marianne barely saw the other Untitled holding him back before Stuff slammed the door in his face.

Marianne collapsed into the throne, a helpless, slightly hysterical giggle escaping. Brandan and Sean both punched Ross in the arm. Sugar Plum spun in a wide, delighted loop, trailing blue sparkles. “That was _wonderful!_ ” she crowed. “Oh, I can't wait until tomorrow night!”

Mend finally relaxed, her shoulders rolling in. “Well done, Marianne,” she murmured. Marianne gave her a thumbs-up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to [Selkie-de-Suzie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkie_de_Suzie/pseuds/Selkie_de_Suzie) and partially inspired by her fantastic fic, [Raiment](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4425620)
> 
> The initial inspiration for this fic was "What if Bog was attacked by a bird?" Immediately followed by Marianne in armor of feathers. 'Raiment' solidified the style I wanted to portray.

**Author's Note:**

> HAHA SO. I first watched Strange Magic back in October, while my ship was underway, and I had most of the notes and outline for this done before the next time we pulled in. I WANTED to finish writing it before I posted it, because it takes me 95 years to finish anything, but I knew it'd never see the light of day if I tried that. Let's see how long it'll take me to finish this one.
> 
> Note in a note: The noble caste of the Unseelie Court is the Raksha, vaaaaguely based on the Raksha/Fair Folk from my favorite dice-chucker, Exalted. For anyone familiar with such, I see Bog as an Anarch (Sword over Staff) that is inverting to an Imperial (Staff over Sword) The Web Mender is a Scribe (Staff over Ring) with exactly zero impetus to invert.
> 
> Concept art for Mend: http://saesama.tumblr.com/post/138655339443/holy-shit-i-arted-meet-the-web-mender-aka-mend


End file.
